by Bill Myers
Ryan felt himself swell a little with pride. This was quite an honor Little Creek was bestowing on him. What other secrets did he have to share?
After several more feet, Little Creek finally came to a stop. “Over there,” he said, motioning with his flashlight. “Look at that wall.”
Ryan caught his breath. On the near wall was a crude painting of an Indian brandishing a long spear and stalking a buffalo. The painting could have been a thousand years old.
“This was painted by my ancestors,” Little Creek said in almost a whisper. “We don’t know when, but legend says the brave in the painting is Dark Bear’s great-great-grandfather.”
Ryan whistled softly. “It looks even older than that,” he said quietly.
Little Creek chuckled. “Not if you believe the other legend.”
“Other legend?”
“That, like Dark Bear, his grandfathers before him each lived to be a thousand years old.”
Ryan looked at Little Creek. “They . . . what?”
Little Creek shrugged. “It’s not impossible. Doesn’t the Bible talk about people living that long?”
“Well . . . yes, but — ”
“So if it’s in the Bible, it’s possible, isn’t it?”
Ryan nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure he believed Little Creek, but he didn’t want to argue. After all, he was in a cave in the middle of the New Mexico desert, looking at a painting that was made thousands of years ago, listening to its legends — things just didn’t get any cooler than this!
If only that small voice inside would stop nudging him, making him feel guilty, saying he should be careful . . .
He shook his head. It was a stupid feeling. There was nothing dangerous here. He was doing nothing wrong.
“Come with me,” Little Creek said, breaking into Ryan’s thoughts.
Ryan followed the boy as he turned and a few steps later rounded a small bend. The cave grew larger and larger. Now it was several times Ryan’s height, and the ceiling grew higher with every step. Soon they’d entered a huge, magnificent cavern.
“This painting has even more color,” Little Creek said as he flashed the light across the cavern to the far wall.
The light revealed the portrait of a medicine man calling down lightning. All around him other Indians cowered in fear as the thunderbolt struck the ground.
“Is this a battle scene?” Ryan asked.
“No,” Little Creek replied. “We call it The Wrath of Shaman. It’s supposed to be an angry medicine man calling down fire on members of the tribe who disobeyed his council.”
“Could he really do that?”
“It depends on the power of the shaman. Sometimes he also fasts and takes herbs to help him see.”
“What do you mean, ‘see’?”
“To see into the netherworld, the spirit world.”
Ryan felt a sudden chill. But this time it had nothing to do with the temperature inside the cave.
Little Creek continued, “Sometimes the shaman can see the cause of a sickness or the path to solve another person’s problem.”
“The herbs can help him do that?” Ryan asked.
Little Creek nodded. “The herbs clear his mind of the things of this world so he can focus on the supernatural. They help him get in touch with the Great Spirit.”
Ryan said nothing as they made their way out of the cave, but during the trip back to the camp, he asked Little Creek if he would teach him more about the ways of his tribe.
“Sure.” Little Creek grinned. “It’s like I said — I think you have the potential of a brave.”
Once again Ryan felt pride swelling inside his chest.
Little Creek continued, “You should try some of the tea we drink at ceremony. I bet you could also see into the supernatural.”
There was that nervous feeling again, but this time it was easy to shove it aside. There were far too many questions, too many new things to explore, to let his nerves stop him now. “Can’t you see into the supernatural without the tea?”
“Some can,” Little Creek answered. “But Dark Bear is the only one I know who can communicate with the Great Spirit without it.”
Ryan nodded. After a while he turned to his little friend with a question — a question that had been forming in his mind most of the morning. “Little Creek?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think this Great Spirit you’re always talking about . . . do you think that’s just another name for God?”
Little Creek smiled. “Sure. What else could it be?”
As the boys returned to the camp, the sun was just cresting over the eastern ridge. It was a beautiful, golden dawn. And there in the distance a dark speck was walking toward them.
“Is that . . . ?” Ryan asked. “Is that Dark Bear?”
Little Creek slowed and peered into the distance. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s Swift Arrow. He has finally returned from his time of seeking.”
“Great,” Ryan exclaimed, “that’s the guy we’re supposed to talk to. Now we’ll finally find out why we were sent here.”
“I’m sure he’s been fasting,” Little Creek said. “Why don’t you invite him to join your group for breakfast?”
“Good idea.”
An hour later Mom was dishing up bacon and eggs for the group and their newest acquaintance, Swift Arrow.
As they sat eating around the picnic table, Becka couldn’t help noticing how lean and muscular Swift Arrow was. As far as she could tell, the brave didn’t have an ounce of fat on him.
“So,” Scott asked as Becka passed around seconds, “are you a friend of Z’s?”
Swift Arrow frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t recognize the name.”
“Z,” Scott repeated.
Swift Arrow shook his head.
“Do you surf much?”
Again Swift Arrow looked confused. “There are no large bodies of water near here . . . Even the river is dried up, so it would be difficult to — ”
“No, no,” Ryan chuckled. “He doesn’t mean surf, like ride a board. He means, do you surf the Net? You know, visit the Internet with your computer?”
Swift Arrow grinned at the mistake. “I’m afraid I don’t have a computer. Why do you ask?”
“That’s where we met Z,” Scott explained. “On the Net.”
“At least that’s where we think we met him,” Becka corrected. “But he seems to know so much personal stuff about us that we suspect we might have run into him before.”
“He’s never told you who he is?”
“That’s right.” Becka nodded. “Which is one of the things that makes him so mysterious.”
“That and the fact that he sends us all around the world to help folks out,” Scott added.
“Well, I don’t know why this Z has sent you,” Swift Arrow said. “But I’m glad you came. For the past three days, I have been walking and praying, seeking for just such guidance. You are the answer to my prayers.”
“How can we help?” Becka asked, pleased but confused by the young man’s obvious relief.
“Two years ago I left the reservation and went to the university. During that time I became a Christian — ”
“No kidding?” Scott interrupted. “We’re all Christians too.”
“That’s great.” Swift Arrow grinned.
“Go on,” Becka said. “You were walking and praying because . . .”
Swift Arrow nodded. “When I returned to my village after college, I was very anxious to share the things I’d learned about Jesus. Like many Native Americans, I had grown up thinking that Jesus was a white man’s God, opposed to everything we believed. But that’s not true. Many of Christ’s teachings fit in with what I have learned from nature, from his creation. In fact, the gospel actually completes our teachings . . . helping us make sense out of them. It also helped me understand what parts of the old teachings were true and what parts were not.”
“I’ll bet you found a lot that was true,” Ryan said.<
br />
Becka glanced at him. She knew Ryan had developed a real interest in and appreciation for these people, and that was good. But it seemed he was going beyond that — as though he was trying to rationalize that all Native American beliefs were the same as those of Christian ity.
“Yes, some things are the same,” Swift Arrow answered. Then he hesitated, as though unsure if he should go on.
“Please,” Mom urged him quietly, “tell us what happened.”
He continued, “When I arrived home, I was not able to share these new truths with my people. Worries about the drought consumed their every thought. I tried praying with some of them, but the rain did not come, and soon they lost interest in my prayers. And my faith.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Becka said.
“But there’s more. Last week the tribal shaman, Dark Bear, began saying that my return to the village had actually prolonged the drought. That I had brought a plague onto the village because of my belief in the white man’s religion.”
“That’s terrible,” Scott protested.
Becka glanced at Scott, nodding in agreement. That’s when she saw it — another storm cloud starting to form off in the distance, toward the southwest. It was similar to the huge thunderhead that had brought the wind the day they’d come to the village — the wind that had nearly knocked her off the bridge. She felt a little knot of uneasiness grow inside.
“The drought has greatly tested my faith,” Swift Arrow continued. “I went on the walkabout to fast and pray for God to show me what to do. I want to share my faith with the people, but it is hard for minds to be open when bellies are empty.”
Becka glanced back at the cloud. It continued its slow approach.
“We are running out of the grain we’ve stored, and there are no new crops. Unless it rains, we will have to abandon this, the home of our forefathers.”
“That would be awful,” Ryan protested.
Swift Arrow nodded. “It is either that or starve.”
“There must be something you can do,” Mom said.
“Dark Bear claims I have rejected the faith of my people. I want to challenge him, to prove that he is wrong and that God has far greater power than he does. But until now I have been afraid.”
“Until now?” Becka asked.
Swift Arrow smiled. “Now four strangers come — strangers who share my faith. It is the sign I was hoping for.”
“I still don’t understand,” Becka said. “What exactly do you think we can do about a drought?”
“Hold that thought,” Mom said as she crossed to the fire to scoop up more eggs. She passed around the food and everyone, including Becka, dug in. It was surprising how the fresh air and exercise increased their appetites.
“This is very good,” Swift Arrow said.
“Yeah, Mom,” Scott agreed. “Good job.”
Becka noticed that the thunderhead was much closer. She was surprised at how quickly clouds formed and moved through these parts.
“Go ahead,” Ryan urged Swift Arrow. “You were telling us about the drought.”
“To me your arrival is a sign that I must take a stand against Dark Bear. I must tell the truth about the Christian God, and then the drought will end. Because once I have — ”
But Swift Arrow never finished. Suddenly there was an explosion, a thunderclap so loud that it shook the table. All five of them jumped and looked up at the sky.
Becka was the first to spot him. It was the same man she had seen from the bridge. The same one Ryan had said he’d seen at the avalanche. He stood high above them, on the very top of Starved Rock. He was wearing a buffalo headdress, complete with horns. And even from that distance it was possible to see his piercing stare, glaring down at them.
“Dark Bear,” Swift Arrow whispered.
Several seconds passed, with only the echoing roll of thunder in the background. And then, ever so slowly, Dark Bear began to chant and dance in a small circle atop the rock.
Becka turned to Swift Arrow. She wanted to ask what Dark Bear was doing, but the expression on the young man’s face stopped her cold. Fear. No, worse than fear . . . terror.
Swift Arrow glanced back up at the sky; then he leaped up from the table and shouted, “Get away from the table! Everybody get away!”
The panic in his voice spurred the others to move.
“Jump back!” he shouted. “Get away from the table! Do it now!
“Hurry!” Swift Arrow shouted, grabbing Mom and Becka by the arms, pulling them away. “Get back! Get back!”
Ryan and Scott followed suit, although not without the usual questions: “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
Before Swift Arrow could answer, a tremendous, blinding f lash filled the sky. Becka and Mom screamed. Air crackled and burned all around them. Suddenly a powerful blast — an explosion of thunder so intense — knocked all five of them to the ground.
And then it ended as quickly as it had begun. Only the echo of thunder against the hills — and the ringing in their ears — remained.
“What . . . what happened?” Scott stammered as he struggled to his feet.
“I think we were almost hit by lightning!” Mom answered, her voice shaking.
“Look at that!” Ryan exclaimed. He was pointing to the table and benches. Or to what was left of them. The table had split in two. The benches had tipped over and cracked, and all of the wood had been charred and now lay smoldering on the ground.
A shaken Becka looked over at Swift Arrow, who rose to his feet, trembling. He did not say a word. He only tilted his head and looked back up at the top of Starved Rock.
Becka followed his gaze. Dark Bear stood there with his arms folded across his chest, glowering down at them. Her eyes darted back to Swift Arrow. “Did he do that?” she asked incredulously. “He couldn’t have done that, could he?”
Swift Arrow tried to answer, but no words came. Becka watched him swallow and try again. Still nothing. He just stared.
And then Becka heard another voice — distant but heavy and full of ominous authority.
“Let this be a warning!” It was Dark Bear, calling down from the rock. “A warning to you all. It is I who commune with the gods of nature. It is I who will make the rain. And all who oppose me or my magic . . . will surely die.”
6
It was huge. In fact, it seemed to Becka that it was as tall as the mountains themselves, though she knew that was impossible. Still, the eagle’s wings covered most of the sky as it cast its shadow on the desert floor. Becka stared, trying to grasp its size, when the giant bird spotted them.
Instantly, it began to dive. Already Becka suspected she was dreaming . . . but it seemed so real. And the bird was so big. She tried to wake herself, but it was no use. The bird continued its dive.
“Run!” she shouted to Ryan. “Run!”
“But it’s only a dream,” Ryan protested.
“It doesn’t matter. Run!”
She started off, but Ryan refused to move. Reluctantly, she doubled back and grabbed his arm. She tugged, but he wouldn’t move. The eagle was still some way off, but it was coming in fast. And it was screaming. Under its cry she could hear the wind whizzing past the giant wings as they cut through the air.
Becka tugged again until Ryan finally started to move. Now they were holding hands, racing across the desert floor, heading for a clump of trees. She glanced over her shoulder. The bird was gaining on them. She knew they would never make it. Even if they did, she doubted the trees would offer much protection against such a creature.
All at once her legs grew heavy. Deadweight. But she had to keep going, even if it was only a dream. She knew that if she slowed down the bird would attack and rip them to pieces.
Then everything went black. She and Ryan were still running — she could feel her legs moving, hear Ryan gasping beside her — but they were running in darkness!
Again she tried to force herself awake, and again she failed.
They continued run
ning. Her lungs burned for air; her cheeks were streaked with tears of hopelessness. And then she saw it. Sensed it, really. The great claw of the beast dropping down, reaching out for Ryan.
“Don’t worry,” he shouted, “it’s only a dream!”
The talons reached out and closed around his neck. Rebecca screamed and watched in horror as the talons tore into him, lifting him high into the air.
She screamed again, but it did no good. Then, suddenly, the eagle disappeared, and Becka was all alone. In the dark. Gasping for breath . . .
She heard the sound of insects buzzing outside her tent and, off in the distance, the lone call of an eagle.
She was awake. Or was she? Becka lay there, unsure. She looked around her tent. The dream was over. At least, she thought it had been a dream. But if she’d been dreaming, then what about the eagle call she’d just heard?
With more than a little anxiety, Becka climbed out of her sleeping bag and pulled on her jeans. She unzipped the tent. It was still dark outside, but as far as she could tell, no giant eagles hovered in the sky. She stepped outside and crept over to Scott and Ryan’s tent. Already she could hear Scott snoring away. It was a sound she was all too familiar with, but one that, at least for now, she found very comforting.
Carefully she listened outside their tent. Only one person’s snoring — definitely Scott’s — greeted her ears. Becka peeked inside the tent. Where was Ryan? Only a ripped sleeping bag and his torn and shredded clothing . . . and feathers, lots and lots of giant eagle feathers.
Becka covered her mouth to stifle a scream. And then she saw it, high overhead: a giant eagle swooping down out of the darkness, coming directly at her. She tried to run but was paralyzed. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound would come. And then . . .
She forced herself awake.
This time it was real. But just to be sure, she reached out to pinch her arm. Hard. The shock of pain was a comforting confirmation. Yes, she was awake. She was in her tent, inside her sleeping bag, trying to catch her breath.
“Beck?” She heard a whisper. “Becka, are you all right?” It was Ryan. He was just outside her tent. A wave of relief washed over her.
